Chapter IV: Part 4

After a short and unhappy marriage with one of Diaghileff’s secretaries had been dissolved, Lopokova became Mrs. J. Maynard Keynes, the wife of the brilliant and distinguished English economist, art patron, friend of ballet and inspirer of the British Arts Council. On Keynes’s elevation to the peerage, Lopokova, of course, became Lady Keynes.

Invariably quick in wit, impulsive, possessor of a genuine sense of humor, Lady Keynes remains eager, keen for experiment, restless, impish, and still puckish, always ready to lend her enthusiastic support to ventures and ideas in which she believes.

_MARIE RAMBERT_

One of the most potent forces in the development of ballet in England is Marie Rambert. She was a pioneer in British ballet. She still has much to give.

Marie Rambert--unlike her London colleagues: Karsavina, Kyasht, and Lopokova--was not a Maryinsky lady. Born Miriam Rambach, in Poland, she was a disciple of Emile Jacques Dalcroze, and was recommended to Diaghileff by her teacher as an instructor in the Dalcroze type of rhythmic movement. The Russians who made up the Diaghileff Company were not impressed either by the Dalcroze method or its youthful teacher. They rebelled against her, taunted her, called her “Rhythmitchika,” and left her alone. There was one exception, however. That exception was Vaslav Nijinsky, who was considerably influenced by his studies with Rambert, an influence that was made apparent in three of his choreographic works: _Sacre du Printemps_, _Afternoon of a Faun_ (this, incidentally, the first to show the influence), and _Jeux_.

Despite the attitude of the Russian dancers, it was her contacts with the Diaghileff Ballet that aroused Rambert’s interest in ballet. She had had early dancing lessons in the Russian State School in Warsaw; now she became a pupil of Enrico Cecchetti. In 1920, she established her own ballet school in the Notting Hill Gate section of London, and it was not long after that the Ballet Club, a combination of ballet company with the school, was founded, an organization that became England’s first permanent ballet company.

Rambert’s influence on ballet in England has been widespread. When, after the death of Diaghileff, the Camargo Society was formed in London, along with Ninette de Valois, Lydia Lopokova, J. Maynard Keynes, and Arnold L. Haskell, Rambert was a prime mover.

In her school and at the Ballet Club, she set herself the task of developing English dancers for English ballet. From her school have come very many of the young dancers and, even more important, many of the young choreographers who are making ballet history today. To mention but a few: Frederick Ashton, Harold Turner, Antony Tudor, Hugh Laing, Walter Gore, Frank Staff, William Chappell, among the men; Peggy van Praagh, Pearl Argyle, Andrée Howard, Diana Could, Sally Gilmour, among the women.

Rambert is married to that poet of the English theatre, Ashley Dukes. Twenty-odd years ago they pooled their individual passions--hers for building dancers, his for building theatres and class-rooms--and built and remodelled a hall into a simple, little theatre, which they christened the Mercury, in Ladbroke Road. Its auditorium is as tiny as its stage. Two leaps will suffice to cross it. The orchestra consisted of a single pianist. On occasion a gramophone assisted. Everything had to be simple. Everything had to be inexpensive. The financial difficulties were enormous. Here the early masterpieces of Ashton and Tudor were created. Here great work was done, and ballets brought to life in collaboration between artists in ferment.

I cannot do better than to quote the splendid tribute of my friend, “Freddy” Ashton, when he says: “Hers is a deeply etched character, a potent bitter-sweet mixture; she can sting the lazy into activity, make the rigid mobile and energise the most lethargic.... She has the unique gift of awakening creative ability in artists. Not only myself, but Andrée Howard, Antony Tudor, Walter Gore and Frank Staff felt our impulse for choreography strengthen and become irresistible under her wise and patient guidance. Even those who were not her pupils or directly in her care--the designers who worked with her, William Chappell, Sophie Fedorovitch, Nadia Benois, Hugh Stevenson, to name only a few--all felt the impact of her singular personality.”

The work Marie Rambert did with the Ballet Club and the Ballet Rambert in their days at the Mercury Theatre was of incalculable value. The company continues today but its function is somewhat different. Originally the Ballet Rambert was a place where young choreographers could try out their ideas, could make brave and bold experiments. During my most recent visit to London, in the summer of 1953, I was able to see some of her more recent work on the larger stage of the Sadler’s Wells Theatre. I was profoundly impressed. Outstanding among the works I saw were an unusually fine performance of Fokine’s immortal _Les Sylphides_, which has been continuously in her repertoire since 1930; _Movimientos_, a work out of the London Ballet Workshop in 1952, with choreography and music by the young Michael Charnley, with scenery by Douglas Smith and costumes by Tom Lingwood; Frederick Ashton’s exquisite _Les Masques_, an old tale set to a delicate score by Francis Poulenc, with scenery and costumes by the late and lamented Sophie Fedorovitch; and Walter Gore’s fine _Winter Night_, to a Rachmaninoff score, with scenery and costumes by Kenneth Rowell. There was also an unusually excellent production of _Giselle_, which first entered her repertoire in its full-length form in 1946, with Hugh Stevenson settings and costumes.

While there was a period when Rambert seemed to be less interested in ballets than in dancers, and the present organization would appear to be best described as one where young dancers may be tested and proven, yet Rambert alumnae and alumni are to be found in all the leading British ballet companies.

In the Coronation Honours List in 1953, Marie Rambert was awarded the distinction of Companion of the British Empire.

_MIKHAIL MORDKIN_

Although he was under my management for only a brief time, I must, I feel, make passing reference to Mikhail Mordkin as one of the Russian _emigré_ artists who have been identified with ballet in America. His contributions were neither profound nor considerable; but they should be assessed and evaluated.

Mordkin, born in Russia, in 1881, was a product of the Moscow School, and eventually became a leading figure and one-time ballet-master of the Bolshoi Theatre.

So far as America is concerned, I sometimes like to think his greatest contribution was his masculinity. Before he first arrived here in support of Anna Pavlova in her initial American appearance, the average native was inclined to take a very dim view indeed of a male dancer. Mordkin’s athleticism and obvious virility were noted on every side.

Strange combination of classical dancer, athlete, and clown, Mordkin’s temperament was such that he experienced difficulty throughout his career in adjusting himself to conditions and to people. He broke with the Imperial Ballet; broke with Diaghileff; split with Pavlova. These make-and-break associations could be extended almost indefinitely.

For the record, I should mention that, following upon his split with Pavlova, he had a brief American tour with his own company, calling it the “All Star Imperial Russian Ballet,” and brought as its _ballerina_, the doyenne of Russian _ballerinas_, Ekaterina Geltzer. Again, in 1928, he returned to the States, under the management of Simeon Gest, with a company that included Vera Nemtchinova, Xenia Macletzova, and the English Hilda Butsova, along with Pierre Vladimiroff.

Mordkin’s successes in Moscow had been considerable, but outside Russia he always lagged behind the creative procession, largely, I suspect, because of a stubborn refusal on Mordkin’s part to face up to the fact that, although the root of ballet is classicism, styles change, the world moves forward. Ballet is no exception. Mordkin clung too tenaciously to the faults of the past, as well as to its virtues.

From the ballet school he founded in New York has come a number of first-rate dancing talents. The later Mordkin Ballet, in 1937-1938, and 1938-1939, left scarcely a mark on the American ballet picture. It lacked many things, not the least of which was a _ballerina_ equal to the great classical roles. Its policy, if any, was as dated as Mordkin himself.

If there was a contribution to ballet in America made by Mordkin, it was a fortuitous one. Choreographically he composed nothing that will be remembered. But there was a Mordkin company of sorts, and some of its members formed the nucleus of what eventually became Ballet Theatre.

On 15th July, 1944, Mikhail Mordkin died at Millbrook, New Jersey.

_VASLAV NIJINSKY_

Nijinsky has become a literature and a legend. The story of his tragic life has been told and re-told. His feats as a dancer, his experiments as a choreographer, became a legend, even while he lived.

I regret I never knew him. Those who did know him and with whom I have discussed him, are, for the large part, idolators. That he was a genius they are all agreed. They insist he could leap higher, could remain longer in the air--but there is little point in dwelling on the legend. It is well-known; and legends are the angel’s food on which we thrive.

Nijinsky’s triumphs came at a time when there were great figures bursting over the horizon; at a time when there was so little basis for comparison; at a time when it was extremely difficult for the public to appraise, because the public had so little basis for comparison.

How separate fact from fiction? It is difficult, if not quite impossible. It was the time of the “greatests”: Kubelik, the “greatest” violinist; Mansfield, the “greatest” actor; Irving, the “greatest” actor; Modjeska, the “greatest” actress; Bernhardt, the “greatest” actress; Ellen Terry, the “greatest” actress; Duse, the “greatest” actress.

It is such an easy matter when, prompted by the nostalgic urge, to contemplate longingly a by-gone “Golden Age.” In music, it is equally simple: Anton Rubinstein, Franz Liszt, de Pachmann, Geraldine Farrar, Enrico Caruso ... and so it goes. Each was the “greatest.” Nijinsky has become a part and parcel of the “greatest” legend.

Jan Kubelik, one of the greatest violinists of his generation, is an example. When I brought Kubelik for his last American appearance in 1923, I remember a gathering in the foyer of the Brooklyn’s Academy of Music at one of the concerts he gave there. The younger generation of violinists were out in force, and a number of them were in earnest conversation during the interval in the concert.

Their general opinion was that Kubelik had remained away from America too long; that he was, in fact, slipping. Sol Elman, the father of Mischa, listened attentively. When the barrage had expended itself, he spoke.

“My dear friends,” he said, “Kubelik played the Paganini concerto tonight as splendidly as ever he did. Today you have a different standard. You have Elman, Heifetz, and the rest. All of you have developed and grown in artistry, technique, and, above all, in knowledge and appreciation. The point is: you know more; not that Kubelik plays less well.”

It is all largely a matter of first impressions and their vividness. It is the first impressions that color our memories and often form the basis of our judgments. As time passes, I sometimes wonder how reliable the first impressions may be.

I am unable to state dogmatically that Nijinsky was the “greatest” dancer of our time or of all time. On the other hand, there cannot be the slightest question that he was a very great personality. The quality of personality is the one that really matters.

Today there are, I suppose, between five and six hundred first-class pianists, for example. These pianists are, in many cases, considerably more than competent. But to find the great personality in these five to six hundred talents is something quite different.

The truly great are those who, through something that can only be described as personality, electrify the public. The public, once electrified, will come to see them again and again and again. There are, perhaps, too many good talents. There never can be enough great artists.

Vaslav Nijinsky was one of the great ones--a great artist, a great personality. There are those who can argue long and in nostalgic detail about his technique, its virtues and its defects. Artistry and personality transcend technique; for mere technique, however flawless, is not enough.

It must be borne in mind that Nijinsky’s public career in the Western World was hardly more than seven years long. The legend of Nijinsky commenced with his first appearance in Paris in _Le Spectre de la Rose_, in 1912. It may have been started, fostered, and developed by Diaghileff, continued by Nijinsky’s wife. It is quite possible this is true; but true or not, it does not affect the validity of the legend.

The story of Nijinsky’s peculiarly romantic marriage, his subsequent madness, his alleged partial recovery, his recent death have all been set down for posterity by his wife. I am by no means an all-out admirer of these books; and I am not able to accept or agree with many of the statements and implications in them. Yet the loyalty and devotion she exhibited towards him can only be regarded as admirable.

The merit of her ministrations to the sick man, on the one hand, hardly condones her literary efforts, on the other. Frequently, I detect a quality in the books that reveals itself more strongly as the predatory female than as the protective wife-mother. I cannot accept Romola Nijinsky’s reiterated portraits of Diaghileff as the avenging monster any more than I can the following statement in her latest book, _The Last Days of Nijinsky_, published in 1952:

“Undoubtedly, the news that Vaslav was recuperating became more and more known; therefore it was not surprising that one day he received a cable with an offer from Mr. Hurok, the theatrical impresario, asking him to come over to New York and appear. My son-in-law, who had just arrived to spend the week-end with us, advised me to cable back accepting the offer, for then we automatically could have escaped from Europe and would have been able to depart at once. But I felt I could not accept a contract for Vaslav and commit him. There was no question at the time that Vaslav should appear in public. Nevertheless, I hoped that the impresario, who was a Russian himself and who had made his name and fortune in America managing Russian dancers in the past, would have vision enough and a humanitarian spirit in helping to get the greatest Russian dancer out of the European inferno. What I did not know at the time was that there was quite a group of dancers who had got together and who worked in silence to keep Nijinsky out of the United States and from public life. Illness had removed the artist with whom they could not compete. They dreaded his coming back.”

While the entire paragraph tends to give a distorted picture of the situation, the last three sentences are as far from the truth as they possibly can be. The implied charge is almost too stupid to contradict or refute. Were it not for the stigma it imputes to many fine artists living in this country, I should ignore it completely. However, the facts are quite simple. It is by no means an easy matter to bring into the United States any person in ill health, either physical or mental. So far as the regulations were concerned, Nijinsky was but another alien. It was impossible to secure a visa or an entry permit. It was equally impossible to secure the proper sort of doctors’ certificates that could have been of material aid in helping secure such papers.

I have a vivid memory of a meeting of dancers at the St. Regis Hotel in New York to discuss what could be done. Anton Dolin was a prime mover in the plan to give assistance. There was a genuine enthusiasm on the part of the dancers present. Unfortunately, the economics of the dance are such that dancers are quite incapable of undertaking long-term financial commitments. But a substantial number of pledges were offered.

It certainly was not a question of “quite a group of dancers who had got together and who worked in silence to keep Nijinsky out of the United States and from public life.” There was no question or suggestion that he should appear in public, incidentally. There was only the sheer inability to get him into the country. If there was any “dread” of “his coming back,” it could only have been the dread that their former colleague, ill in mind and body, might be in danger of being exploited by the romantic author.

Nijinsky, the legend, will endure as long as ballet, because the legend has its roots in genius. Legend apart, no one from the Maryinsky stable, no one in the fairly long history of ballet, as a matter of fact, has given ballet a more complete service. And it should be remembered that this service was rendered in a career that actually covered less than a decade.

_A QUARTET OF IMPERIALISTS_

There is left for consideration a Russian male quartet, three of them still living, who, in one degree or another, have made contributions to ballet in our time, either in the United States or Europe. Their contributions vary in quality and degree, exactly as the four gentlemen differ in temperament and approach. I shall first deal briefly with the three living members of the quartet, two of whom are American citizens of long standing.

_THEODORE KOSLOFF_

I commence with one whose contributions to ballet have been the least. I mention him at all only because, historically speaking, he has been identified with dance in America a long time. With perhaps a single notable exception, Theodore Kosloff’s contributions in all forms have been slight.

The best has been through teaching, for it is as a teacher that he is likely to be remembered longest. Spectacular in his teaching methods as he is in person, it has been from his school that has come a substantial number of artists of the dance who have made a distinctive place for themselves in the dance world of America.

Outstanding among these are Agnes de Mille, who has made an ineradicable mark with her highly personal choreographic style, and Nana Gollner, American _ballerina_ of fine if somewhat uncontrolled talents, the latter having received almost all her training at Kosloff’s hands and cane.

Theodore Kosloff was born in 1883. A pupil of the Moscow rather than the Petersburg school, he eventually became a minor soloist at the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow, appearing in, among others, _The Sleeping Beauty_ and _Daughter of Pharaoh_. When Diaghileff recruited his company, Kosloff and his wife, Maria Baldina, were among the Muscovites engaged. Kosloff was little more than a _corps de ballet_ member with Diaghileff, with an occasional small solo. But he had a roving and retentive eye.

When Gertrude Hoffman and Morris Gest decided to jump the Russian Ballet gun on Broadway, and to present their _Saison de Ballets Russes_ at the Winter Garden in advance of Diaghileff’s first American visit, it was Theodore Kosloff who restaged the Fokine works for Hoffman, without so much as tilt of the hat or a by-your-leave either to the creator or the owner.

Remaining in the States after the demise of the venture, Kosloff for a time appeared in vaudeville with his wife, Baldina, and his younger brother, Alexis, also a product of the Moscow School. One of these tours took them to California, where Theodore settled in Hollywood. Here, almost simultaneously, he opened his school and associated himself with Cecil B. de Mille as an actor in silent film “epics.” He was equally successful at both.

Kosloff’s purely balletic activities thereafter included numerous movie-house “presentations”--the unlamented spectacles that preceded the feature film in the silent picture days, in palaces like Grauman’s Egyptian and Grauman’s Chinese; a brief term as ballet-master of the San Francisco Opera Ballet; and colossal and pepped-up versions of _Petroushka_ and _Schéhérazade_, the former in Los Angeles, the latter at the Hollywood Bowl.

Today, at seventy, Kosloff pounds his long staff at classes in the shadow of the Hollywood hills, directing all his activity at perspiring and aspiring young Americans, who in increasing numbers are looking towards the future through the medium of ballet.

_LAURENT NOVIKOFF_

The three living members of this male quartet were all Muscovites, which is to say, products of the Imperial School of Moscow and dancers of the Bolshoi Theatre, rather than products of the Maryinsky. In Russian ballet this was a sharp distinction and a fine one, with the Maryinskians inclined to glance down the nose a bit at their Moscow colleagues. And possibly with reason.

Laurent Novikoff was born five years later than Theodore Kosloff; he graduated from the Moscow School an equal number of years later. He remained at the Bolshoi Theatre for only a year before joining the Diaghileff Ballet in Paris for an equal length of time. On his return to Moscow at the close of the Diaghileff season, he became a first dancer at the Bolshoi, only to leave to become Anna Pavlova’s partner the next year. As a matter of fact, the three remaining members of the quartet were all, at one time or another, partners of Pavlova.

With Pavlova, Novikoff toured the United States in 1913 and in 1914. Returning once again to Moscow, he staged ballets for opera, and remained there until the revolution, when he went to London and rejoined the Diaghileff Company, only to leave and join forces once again with Pavlova, remaining with her this time for seven years, and eventually opening a ballet school in London. In 1929, Novikoff accepted an invitation from the Chicago Civic Opera Company to become its ballet-master; and later, for a period of five years, he was ballet-master of the Metropolitan Opera Company.

As a dancer, Novikoff had a number of distinguished qualities, including a fine virility, a genuinely romantic manner, imagination and authority. As a choreographer, he can hardly be classified as a progressive. While he staged a number of works for Pavlova, including, among others, _Russian Folk Lore_ and _Don Quixote_, most of his choreographic work was with one opera company or another. In nearly all cases, ballet was, as it still is, merely a poor step-sister in the opera houses and with the opera companies, often regarded by opera directors merely as a necessary nuisance, and only on rare occasions is an opera choreographer ever given his head.

A charming, cultured, and quite delightful gentleman, Laurent Novikoff now lives quietly with his wife Elizabeth in the American middle west.

_ALEXANDRE VOLININE_

Alexandre Volinine was Anna Pavlova’s partner for a longer time than any of the others. Born in 1883, he was a member of the same Moscow Imperial class as Theodore Kosloff, attained the rank of first dancer at the Bolshoi Theatre, and remained there for nine years.

In 1910, he left Russia to become Pavlova’s partner, a position he held intermittently for many years. Apart from being Pavlova’s chief support, he made numerous American appearances. He was a member of Gertrude Hoffman’s _Saison Russe_, at the Winter Garden, in 1911; and in the same year supported the great Danish _ballerina_, Adeline Genée, at the Metropolitan Opera House, in _La Danse_, “an authentic record by Mlle. Genée of Dancing and Dancers between the years 1710 and 1845.”

Volinine returned to the United States in 1912-1913, when, after the historical break between Pavlova and Mordkin, the latter formed his “All-Star Imperial Russian Ballet,” with Ekaterina Geltzer, Julia Sedova, Lydia Lopokova, and Volinine. This was an ill-starred venture from the start for no sooner had they opened at the Metropolitan Opera House than Mordkin and Sedova quarrelled with Geltzer and, so characteristic of Russian Ballet, the factions, in this case Polish and English _versus_ Russian, took violent sides. Volinine was on the side of the former. As a result of the company split, the English-Polish section went off on a tour across the country with Volinine, who augmented their tiny salaries by five dollars weekly from his private purse. After they had worked their way through the Deep South and arrived at Creole New Orleans, the manager decamped for a time, and a tremulous curtain descended on the first act of _Coppélia_, not to rise.

By one means or another, and with some help from the British Consul in New Orleans, they managed to return to New York by way of a stuffy journey in a vile-smelling freighter plying along the coast. By quick thinking, and even quicker acting, including mass-sitting on the manager’s doorstep, they forced that individual to arrange for the passage back to England, which was accomplished with its share of excitement; once back in England, Volinine returned to his place as Pavlova’s first dancer.

Volinine was the featured dancer with Pavlova in 1916, when I first met her at the Hippodrome, and often accompanied us to supper. As the years wore on, I learned to know and admire him.

As a dancer, Volinine was a supreme technician, and, I believe, one of the most perfect romantic dancers of his time. In his Paris school today he is passing on his rare knowledge to the men of today’s generation of _premières danseurs_. His teaching, combined with his quite superb understanding of the scientific principles involved, are of great service to ballet. Michael Somes, the first dancer of the Sadler’s Wells Ballet, is among those who go to Volinine’s Paris studio for those refining corrections obtainable only from a great teacher who has been a great dancer.

“Sasha” Volinine has, perhaps, spent as much or more of his professional life in England, Australia, and other English-speaking countries, as any Russian dancer. On the other hand, he speaks and understands less English, perhaps, than any of the others.

Often in America and London we have gone out to dine, to sup, often with a group. “Sasha” invariably would be the first to ask the headwaiter or _maître d’hôtel_ for a copy of the menu. Immediately he would concentrate on it, poring over it, giving it seemingly careful scrutiny and study.

All the others in the party would have ordered, and then, after long cogitation, “Sasha” would summon the waiter and, pointing to something in the menu utterly irrelevant, would solemnly demand: “Ham and eggs.”

I am happy to count “Sasha” Volinine among my old friends, and it is always a pleasure to foregather with him when I am in Paris.

_ADOLPH BOLM_

If my old friend, Adolph Bolm, were here to read this, he probably would be the first to object to being classified with this quartet of “Imperialists.” He would have pointed out to me in his emphatic manner that by far the greater part of his career had been spent in the United States, working for ballet in America. He would have insisted that he neither thought nor acted like an “Imperialist”: that he was a progressive, not a reactionary; and he would, at considerable length, have advanced his theory that all “Imperialists” were reactionaries. He would have repeated to me that even when he was at the Maryinsky, he was a rebel and a leader in the revolt against what he felt were the stultifying influences of its inbred conservatism. This would have gone on for some time, for Bolm was intelligent, literate, articulate, and ready to make a speech at the drop of a ballet shoe, or no shoe at all.

I have placed Bolm in this book among the “Imperialists” because he had his roots in the Imperial Russian Ballet, where he was conditioned as child and youth; he was a product of the School in Theatre Street and a Maryinsky soloist for seven years; he was a contemporary and one-time colleague of the three other members of this quartet, either in Russia or with the Diaghileff Ballet Russe.

Born in St. Petersburg in 1884, the son of the concert-master and associate conductor of the French operatic theatre, the Mikhailovsky, Bolm entered the School at ten, was a first-prize graduate in 1904. He was never a great classical dancer; but he had a first-rate sense of the theatre, was a brilliant character dancer, a superlative mime.

Bolm was the first to take Anna Pavlova out of Russia, as manager and first dancer of a Scandinavian and Central European tour that made ballet history. He was, I happen to know, largely responsible in influencing Pavlova temporarily to postpone the idea of a company of her own and to abandon their own tour, because he believed the future of Russian Ballet lay with Diaghileff. Although the Nijinsky legend commences when Nijinsky first leapt through the window of the virginal bedroom of _Le Spectre de la Rose_, in Paris in 1911, it was _Prince Igor_ and Bolm’s virile, barbaric warrior chieftain that provided the greater impact and produced the outstanding revelation of male dancing such as the Western World had not hitherto known.

Bolm was intimately associated with the Diaghileff invasion of the United States, when Diaghileff, a displaced and dispirited person sitting out the war in Switzerland, was invited to bring his company to America by Otto H. Kahn. But, owing to the war and the disbanding of his company, it was impossible for Diaghileff to reassemble the original personnel. It was a grave problem. Neither Nijinsky, Fokine, nor Karsavina was available. It was then that Bolm took on the tremendous dual role of first dancer and choreographer, engaging and rehearsing what was to all intents and purposes a new company in a repertoire of twenty-odd ballets. The Diaghileff American tours were due in no small degree to Bolm’s efforts in achieving what seemed to be the impossible.

After the second Diaghileff American tour, during which Bolm was injured, he remained in New York. Unlike many of his colleagues, his quick intelligence grasped American ideas and points of view. This was evidenced throughout his career by his interest in our native subjects, composers, painters.

With his own Ballet Intime, his motion picture theatre presentations of ballet, his Chicago Allied Arts, his tenure with the Chicago Opera Company, the San Francisco Opera Ballet, his production of _Le Coq d’Or_ and two productions of _Petroushka_ at the Metropolitan Opera House, he helped sow the seeds of real ballet appreciation across the country.

My acquaintance and friendship with Adolph Bolm extended over a long time. His experimental mind, his eagerness, his enthusiasm, his deep culture, his capacity for friendship, his hospitality--all these qualities endeared him to me. If one did not always agree with him (and I, for one, did not), one could not fail to appreciate and respect his honesty and sincerity. During a period when Ballet Theatre was under my management, I was instrumental in placing him as the _régisseur general_ (general stage director to those unfamiliar with ballet’s term for this important functionary) of the company, feeling that his discipline, knowledge, taste, and ability would be helpful to the young company in maintaining a high performing standard. Unhappily, much of the good he did and could do was negated by an unfortunate attitude on the part of some of our younger American dancers, who have little or no respect for tradition, reputation, or style, and who seem actively to resent achievement--in an art that has its roots in the past although its branches stretch out to the future--rather than respect and admire it.

A striking example of this sort of thing took place when I had been instrumental, later on, in having Bolm stage a new version of Stravinsky’s _Firebird_, for Ballet Theatre, in 1945, with Alicia Markova and Anton Dolin.

My last meeting with Bolm took place at the opening performance of the Sadler’s Wells production of _The Sleeping Beauty_, in Los Angeles. I shall not soon forget his genuine enthusiasm and how he embraced Ninette de Valois as he expressed his happiness that the great full-length ballets in all their splendor had at last been brought to Los Angeles.

In his later years, Bolm lived on a hilltop in Hollywood; in Hollywood, but not of it, with Igor Stravinsky and Nicholas Remisoff as two of his closest and most intimate friends. One night, in the spring of 1951, Bolm went to sleep and did not wake again in this world.

His life had been filled with an intense activity, a remarkable productivity in his chosen field--thirty-five years of it in the United States, in the triple role of teacher, dancer, choreographer. As I have intimated before, Bolm’s understanding of the things that are at the root of the American character was, in my opinion, deeper and more profound than that of any of his colleagues. His achievements will live after him.

My last contacts with Bolm revealed to me a man still vital, still eager; but a little soured, a shade bitter, because he was conscious the world was moving on and felt that the ballet was shutting him out.

Before that bitterness could take too deep a root in the heart and soul of a gentle artist, a Divine Providence closed his eyes in the sleep everlasting.

6. Tristan and Isolde: Michel and Vera Fokine

If ever there were two people who seemingly were inseparable, they were Michel and Vera Fokine. Theirs was a modern love story that could rank with those of Abélard and Heloïse, Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde. The romance of the Fokines continued, unabated, till death did them part.

The story of Michel Fokine’s revolution in modern ballet has become an important part of ballet’s history. The casual ballet-goer, to whom one name sounds very much like another, recognizes the name of Fokine. He may not realize the full importance of the man, but he has been unable to escape the knowledge that some of the ballets he knows and loves best are Fokine works.

The literature that has grown up around Michel Fokine and his work is fairly voluminous, as was his due. Yet, for those of today’s generation, who are prone to forget too easily, it cannot be repeated too often that had it not been for Michel Fokine, there might not have been any such thing as modern ballet. For ballet, wherein he worked his necessary and epoch-making revolution, was in grave danger of becoming moribund and static, and might well, by this time, have become extinct.

He was a profound admirer of Isadora Duncan, although he denied he had been influenced by her ideas. Fokine felt Duncan, in her concern for movement, had brought dancing back to its beginnings. He was filled with a divine disgust for the routine and the artificial practices of ballet at the turn of the century. He was termed a heretic when he insisted that each ballet demands a new technique appropriate to its style, because he fought against the eternal stereotype.

Fokine threw in his lot with Diaghileff and his group. With Diaghileff his greatest masterpieces were created. Both Fokine and Diaghileff were complicated human beings; both were artists. Problems were never simple with either of them. There is no reason here to go into the causes for the rupture between them. That there was a rupture and that it was never completely healed is regrettable. It was tantamount to a divorce between the parents of modern ballet. It was, as is so often the case in divorce, the child that suffered.

For a time following the break, the Fokines returned to Russia; and then, in 1918, together with their son Vitale, spent some time in and out of Finland, Norway, Sweden, and Denmark. Conditions were not ideal for creation, and nothing was added to the impressive list of Fokine masterpieces.

In 1919, Morris Gest was immersed in the production of a gargantuan musical show destined for the Century Theatre: _Aphrodite_, based on an English translation of Pierre Louys’ novel. Gest made Fokine an offer to come to America to stage a Bacchanal for the work. Fokine accepted. _Aphrodite_ was not a very good musical, nor was it, as I remember it, a very exciting Bacchanal; but it was a great success. Fokine himself was far from happy with it.

For a number of reasons, the Fokines decided to make New York their home. They eventually bought a large house, where Riverside Drive joins Seventy-second Street; converted part of the house into a dancing studio, and lived in the rest of the house in an atmosphere of nostalgic gloom, a sort of Chopinesque twilight. Ballet in America was at a very low ebb when Fokine settled here. There was a magnificent opportunity to hand for the father of modern ballet, had he but taken it. For some reason he muffed the big chance. Perhaps he was embittered by a series of unhappy experiences, not the least of which was the changed political scene in his beloved Russia, to which he was never, during the rest of his life, able to make adjustment. He was content, as an artist, for the most part to rest on his considerable laurels. There was always _Schéhérazade_. More importantly, there was always _Sylphides_.

Fokine’s creative life, in the true sense, was something he left behind in Europe. He never seemed to sense or to try to understand the American impulse, rhythm, or those things which lie at the root of our native culture. In the bleak Riverside Drive mansion, he taught rather half-heartedly at classes, but gave much of his time and energy in well-paid private lessons to the untalented daughters of the rich.

From the choreographic point of view, he was satisfied, for the most part, to reproduce his early masterpieces with inferior organizations, or to stage lesser pieces for the Hippodrome or the Ziegfeld Follies. One of the latter will suffice as an example. It was called _Frolicking Gods_, a whimsy about a couple of statues of Greek Gods who came to life, became frightened at a noise, and returned to their marble immobility. And it may be of interest to note that these goings-on were all accomplished to, of all things, Tchaikowsky’s _Nutcracker Suite_. There was also a pseudo-Aztec affair, devised, so far as tale was concerned, by Vera Fokine, and called _The Thunder Bird_. The Aztec quality was emphasized by the use of a pastiche of music culled from the assorted works of Tchaikowsky, Glinka, Rimsky-Korsakoff, Balakirev, and Borodine.

It was during the winter of 1920, not long after the Fokines, with their son Vitale, had arrived here, that we came together professionally. I arranged to present them jointly in a series of programmes at the Metropolitan Opera House, with Arnold Volpe and his Symphony Orchestra.

Fokine came with me to see the Metropolitan stage. He arrived at what might have been a ticklish moment. Fokine was extremely sensitive to what he called “pirated” versions of his works. There was, of course, no copyright protection for them, since choreography had no protection under American copyright law. Fokine was equally certain that he, Fokine, was the only person who could possibly reproduce his works. As we entered the Metropolitan, Adolph Bolm was appearing in an opera-ballet version of Rimsky-Korsakoff’s _Le Coq d’Or_. The performance had commenced.

As I have intimated, after he broke with Diaghileff, Fokine was so depressed that for some time he could not work at all. Then he received an invitation from Anna Pavlova to come to Berlin, where she was about to produce some new ballets. Fokine accepted the invitation, and when Pavlova asked him to suggest a subject, Fokine proposed a ballet based on the opera, _Le Coq d’Or_. Pavlova, however, considered the plot of the Rimsky-Korsakoff work to be too political, and also felt it unwise of her to offer a subject burlesquing the Tsar.

It was not until after Fokine temporarily returned to the Diaghileff fold that _Le Coq d’Or_ achieved production. Diaghileff agreed with Fokine on the subject, and Fokine was anxious that it should be mounted in as modern a manner as possible. The story of the opera, based on Pushkin’s well-known poem, as adapted to the stage by V. Bielsky, requires no comment. Fokine’s opera-ballet production was, in its way, quite unique. There were two casts, which is to say, singers and dancers. While one character danced and acted, the words in the libretto were spoken or sung by the dancing character’s counterpart.

As a result of the Metropolitan Opera Company’s wartime ban on anything German, in 1917, Pierre Monteux, the former Diaghileff conductor, was imported by the Metropolitan for the expanded French list. One of the results of Monteux’s influence on the Metropolitan repertoire was _Le Coq d’Or_. Adolph Bolm, by that time resident in New York, having remained here after the last Diaghileff American season, was engaged by Otto H. Kahn to stage the work in the style of the Diaghileff production. Bolm, who had his own ideas, nevertheless based his work on Fokine’s basic plan, and that of the Fokine-Diaghileff production. Bolm was meticulous, however, in insisting that credit be given to Fokine for the original idea, and it was always billed as “after Michel Fokine.” The Metropolitan production, as designed by the Hungarian artist, Willy Pogany, whose sets were among the best the Metropolitan ever has seen, resulted in one of the most attractive and exciting productions the Metropolitan has achieved. Aside from the production itself, the singing of the Spanish coloratura, Maria Barrientos, as the Queen, the conducting of Monteux, and the dancing of Bolm as King Dodon, set a new standard for the Metropolitan.

On the occasion I have mentioned, we entered the front of the house, and Fokine watched a bit of the performance with me, standing in the back of the auditorium. He had no comment, which was unusual for him.

After watching for a time, I asked Fokine if he would care to meet his old colleague. He said he would. Together we felt our way back stage in the dimly lighted passages. The pass-door to back-stage was even darker. I stood aside to let Fokine precede me. Then my heart nearly stopped. Fokine stumbled and nearly fell prostrate on the iron-concrete steps. He picked himself up, brushed himself off. “Mikhail Mikhailovitch,” I said, half frightened to death, “you must be careful.”

“It is nothing,” he replied, “but why in hell isn’t the place properly lighted?”

The meeting with Bolm, who had made Fokine’s favorite ballet even more exciting than it actually was, was cordial enough, cool, and uneventful. Bolm was by far the more demonstrative. Their conversation was general rather than particular. Fokine and I looked over the stage, its size and its equipment. Fokine thanked Bolm, apologized for the interruption, and took his leave. As we felt our way out to the street, Fokine’s only comment on _Le Coq d’Or_ was, “The women’s shawls should be farther back on the head. They are quite impossible when worn like that. And when they weep, they should weep.”

Fokine was a stickler for detail. In conversation about dancing, over and over again he would use two Russian words, “_Naslajdaites_” and “_laska_.” Freely translated, those Russian words suggest “do it as though you enjoyed yourself” and “caressingly.”

The programme for the appearances at the Metropolitan had been carefully worked out, balanced with joint performances, solos for each, with symphony orchestra interludes while Michel and Vera were changing costumes. For the opening performance it was decided that Michel and Vera would jointly do the lovely waltz from _Les Sylphides_; a group of Caucasian dances to music arranged by Asafieff; the Mazurka from Delibes’ _Coppélia_; and a group of five Russian dances by Liadov. Fokine himself would do the male solo, the Mazurka from _Les Sylphides_, and a Liadov _Berceuse_; while Vera’s solo contributions would be _The Dying Swan_, and the arrangement Fokine made for her of Beethoven’s “_Moonlight Sonata_.”

The advertising campaign was under full steam ahead, and rehearsals were well under way. So well were things going, in fact, that I relaxed my habitual pre-opening tension for a moment at my home, which was, in those days, in Brooklyn. I even missed a rehearsal, since Fokine was at his very best, keen and interested, and the music was in the able hands of Arnold Volpe, a musician who worked passionately for the highest artistic aims, a Russian-born American

_Baron_

S. Hurok]

_Lucas-Pritchard_

Mrs. Hurok]

Lubov Egorova and Solange Schwartz]

Olga Preobrajenska in her Paris school]

_Hoppé_]

_Lido_ ]

Michel Fokine]

_Maurice Seymour_]

Anna Pavlova]

Alexandre Volinine in his Paris studio, with Colette Marchand

_Lido_]

_Baker_

Ballet Pioneering in America: “Sasha” Philipoff, Irving Deakin,
Olga Morosova, “Colonel” W. de Basil, Sono Osato
]

S. Hurok, “Colonel” W. de Basil and leading members of the de Basil
Ballet Russe, 1933. Back row: David Lichine, Vania Psota, Sasha
Alexandroff, S. Hurok; Center row: Leonide Massine, Tatiana
Riabouchinska, Col. W. de Basil, Nina Verchinina, Yurek
Shabalevsky; Front row: Edward Borovansky, Tamara Toumanova

_Nikoff_ ]

pioneer in music. Volpe devoted his entire life, from the time of his arrival in this country until his death, to the cause of young American musicians. He was an ideal collaborator for the Fokines. There was a fine understanding between Fokine and Volpe, and the performances, therefore, were splendid. I felt content.

But not for long. My peace of mind was shattered by a telephone call. It was Mrs. Volpe. The news was bad. Fokine had suffered an injury during rehearsal. He had pulled a leg tendon. The pain was severe. The rehearsal had been abandoned.

I rushed to Manhattan and up to the old Marie Antoinette Hotel, famous as the long-time home of that wizard of the American theatre, David Belasco. Here the Fokines had made their temporary home, while searching for a house. Michel was in bed, with Vera in solicitous attendance. To understate, the news was very bad. The doctor, who had just left, had said it would be at least six weeks before he could permit Fokine to dance.

But the performance _had_ to be given Tuesday night. It was now Sunday. There was all the publicity, all the advertising, and the rent of the Metropolitan Opera House had to be paid. This was not all. A tour had been booked to follow the Metropolitan appearance, including Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, and Richmond. Apart from my own expenses, there were the responsibilities to the various local managers and managements concerned. Something had to be done, and at once. The newspapers had to be informed.

The silence of the hotel bedroom, hitherto broken only by Vera’s cooing ministrations, deepened. It was I who spoke. An idea flashed through my mind.

“Mikhail Mikhailovitch,” I said, “could Vera Petrovna do a full programme on Tuesday night on her own?”

Michel and Vera exchanged glances. There was something telepathic in the communication between their eyes.

Fokine turned his head in my direction.

“Yes,” he said.

Quickly the programme was rearranged. Fokine suggested adding a Chopin group, which he called _Poland--Three Moods: Happiness, Revolt, Sadness_.

We went into action. The orchestra seat prices were five dollars, and a five-dollar top was high in those days. Announcements were rushed out, informing the public in big type that Vera Fokina, _Prima Ballerina Russian Ballet_, would appear, together with the adjusted programme, which we agreed upon as follows: Arnold Volpe and his Symphony Orchestra would play Weber’s _Oberon_ Overture; Saint-Saens’ Symphonic Poem, _Rouet d’Omphale_; Beethoven’s _Egmont Overture_; Rimsky-Korsakoff’s _Capriccio Espagnol_; Ippolitoff-Ivanoff’s _Caucasian Sketches_; and the _Wedding Procession_ from Rimsky-Korsakoff’s _Le Coq d’Or_. Fokina had an evening cut out for her: the three Polish moods I have mentioned; _The Dying Swan_; _The “Moonlight” Sonata_; the _Danses Tziganes_, by Nachez; _Sapeteado_, a Gitano Dance, by Hartmann; two _Caucasian Dances_, to folk music arranged by Asafief; and four of Liadov’s _Russian Folk Dances_.

A large sign to the same effect was installed in the lobby of the Metropolitan Opera House. The news spread quickly. But the public did not seem to mind. In this eleventh-hour shifting of arrangements, I was happy to have the whole-hearted cooperation of John Brown and Edward Ziegler, the administrative heads of the Metropolitan Opera Company.

The first performance was sold out; the audience was enthusiastic. Moreover, while in those days there were no dance critics, the press comment, largely a matter of straight reporting, was highly favorable. I should like to quote _The New York Times_ account in full as an example of the sort of attention given then to such an important event, some thirty-odd years ago: _“FOKINA’S ART DELIGHTS METROPOLITAN AUDIENCE--Her Husband and Partner Ill, Russian Dancers Interest Throng Alone, with Volpe’s Aid: Vera Fokina, the noted Russian dancer performed an unusual feat on February 11, when she kept a great audience in the Metropolitan keenly interested in her art for almost three hours. When it was announced that Mr. Fokine, her husband, was ill and therefore not able to carry out his part of the program, a murmur of dissatisfaction was audible. But the auditors soon forgot their disappointment and wondered at Mme. Fokina’s graceful and vivid interpretations_.

“_Among the best liked of her offerings was the ‘Dying Swan,’ with Saint-Saens’s music. Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight’ Sonata, well played by an invisible pianist, Izia Seligman, and the Russian and Gipsy pieces. She was compelled to give many encores._

“_Arnold Volpe and his orchestra took a vital part in the program, playing the music with a fine instinct for the interpretative ideas of the dancer. He conducted his forces through some of the compositions intended as the vehicles for the absent Mr. Fokine, and thus won an honest share in the success of the entertainment._”

So much for ballet criticism in New York in 1920.

The tour had to go on with Fokina alone, although Fokine had recovered sufficiently to hobble about and to supervise and direct and oversee. A certain Mr. K. had associated himself as a sort of local representative. Mr. K. was not much of a local manager; but he did have an unholy talent for cheque-bouncing. It was not a matter of one or two, due to some error; they bounded and bounced all over the country in droves, and daily. If the gods that be had seen fit to give me a less sound nervous system than, happily, they have, K.’s financial antics could have brought on a nervous breakdown.

At the same time, Fokine, with his tremendous insistence on perfection, hobbled about, giving orders to all and sundry in a mixture of languages--Russian, French, German, Swedish, and Danish--that no one, but no one, was able to understand. Even up to the time of his death, English was difficult for Mikhail Mikhailovitch, and he spoke it, at all times, with an unreproducible accent. His voice, unless excited, was softly guttural. In typically Russian fashion, he interchanged the letters “g” and “h.” Always there was an almost limitless range of facial expressions.

On this tour, Fokine, being unable to dance, had more time on his hands to worry about everything else. His lighting rehearsals were long and chaotic, since provincial electricians were not conspicuous either for their ability, their interest, or their patience. During the lighting rehearsals, since he was immobilised by his injury, Fokine and Vera would sit side by side. He knew what he wanted; but, before he would finally approve anything, he would turn to her for her commendation; and there would pass between them that telepathic communication I often saw, and about which I have remarked before. Occasionally, if something amused them, they would laugh together; but, more often than not, their faces revealed no more than would a skilled poker-player’s.

Fokine could manage to keep his temper on an even keel for a considerable time, if he put his mind to it. There was no affectation about Fokine, either artistically or personally. In appearance there was not a single one of those artificial eccentricities so often associated with the “artistic temperament.” To the man in the street he would have passed for a solidly successful business man. At work he was a taskmaster unrelenting, implacable, fanatical frequently to the point of downright cruelty. At rest, he was a gentleman of great charm and simplicity, with a sense of humor and a certain capacity for enjoyment. Unfortunately, his sense of humor had a way of deserting him at critical moments. This, coupled with a lack of tact, made him many enemies among those who were once his closest friends. These occasional flashes of geniality came only when things were going his way; but, if things did not go as he wanted, his rages could be and were devastating, all-consuming.

One such incident occurred in Philadelphia. As a matter of fact, Philadelphia was marked by incidents. The first was one I had with Edward Lobe, then manager of Philadelphia’s Metropolitan Opera House, then at Broad and Poplar Streets. It had to do with some of the bouncing K.’s bouncing paper. This straightened out, I returned to the stage to find turmoil rampant. There was another crisis.